A Natural Death

ONE







A Natural Death
By:  Queen Bee

A hideous scream came from the brownstone above. Vibrations against waves of ancient glass nearly burst the filmy sheets. “Another dead one,” Catherine said flipping a page in the Times. She sat reading on a bench across the street from the local café. English tea and honey captivated her taste buds. People milled about on this typical spring day in the city. The bees watched.

Catherine folded the paper. An elderly gentleman approached her; sweat covered his olive skin. “Good Afternoon,” he whispered shakily. His accent was clearly American; his heritage was undoubtedly Middle Eastern, and he didn’t look well. “Nice day,” he said, placing a daisy on her newspaper.

“Isn’t it,” she replied, looking up into the blue sky. Clouds waltzed and the blue backdrop applauded.

Contact had been made — he slipped her a small camera chip, and said, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Tipping his hat, he meandered toward the Café.

In a world that was falling apart with natural disasters, economic catastrophes, and rumors of hostile revolutionary campaigns, Catherine was not surprised about the chip, or what might be imprinted on it. Politics were a disaster — and the rest of the world that had any power left was waiting for the kill. Russia, China, and the USA were the contenders; all in about the same dismal shape.

“Misfortune tests friends, and detects enemies,” a passage Catherine heard her late husband employ many times. According to the Times article she scanned, China and Russia were feeling most of the natural disasters, and that kept them at bay for the moment. China was cleaning up after the largest earthquake to hit them in years, and Russia had little to no food due to the decrease in temperature, and longer winters.

America still had the ability to farm the land and begin again, but not so with most of the world powers. Their land was frozen, parched, useless, or destroyed. The only profitable thing they had was oil. “So what,” Catherine said licking honey from her thumb. “We have oil too.” Her land was the emerald green jewel in a world of cheap imitations. However, some super power would attempt to take over the U.S. for our soil unless we acted swiftly.

Her older sister’s eco-ambition was beginning to make sense; nonetheless, Catherine still felt Clare was a deserter running off to Ireland just like that — with Catherine’s seventeen- year-old daughter in tow no less. Then again, we were “friends” with Ireland. This game of chance Clare’s Party had in mind for political power between “Greens” and “Blues” was ludicrous. A second American Revolution! How archaic. Clare said that America had turned into another England and they were being taxed to death — and something needed to change that. Catherine could not argue that point; however, she couldn’t believe a second revolutionary war was occurring over this mess. Catherine let out a loud harrumph and scanned the rest of the Times.

She sat for a long while, sipped her strong tea, finally catching sight of the honey at the bottom of the cup. She slipped the chip into her oversized leather purse. She really didn’t want the chip to end up there, but slipping her hand in the shoulder bag seemed a natural thing to do. She’d find it later under some old receipts or a bit of gum wrapper. Closing the paper and glancing at the front of the Times again, she winced. CIA and FBI Join Forces to Battle Blind 'Epidemic': Thousands of Americans Dying From Silent Killer . True — it was a tough case. Many people of different backgrounds, ages, and ethnicities were dropping dead with no apparent reason all over America, and with no obvious Terrorist group(s) assuming responsibility for the slaughter. Sirens filled the air. Two police cars and an ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the brownstone. Catherine didn’t need to look — she knew what was thumping down the stairs.

Catherine had a theory. She could not prove it, but it lurked within her thoughts, especially after that fatal dinner. One evening, just after the Epidemic had begun, she and a dear friend were enjoying the last bits of a luscious feast at one of her favorite restaurants. They laughed and reminisced over old times. Catherine was informed the next day that her friend had been taken to New York-Presbyterian Hospital. By the time she arrived, her friend had died. The doctor shrugged, baffled. “Just like the others — all ages, male and female, with no apparent reason — a natural death.”

Such a waste. Grabbing the paper and her bag, she tossed her empty tea container in the trash can.

Honey-bees flew wildly licking the remaining honey out of the moist paper container, before any other “robber-bees” could. Her best friend eliminated by this damn epidemic! What the hell was this world worth anymore, a patch of grass for a human soul? She kicked the garbage can with her “old lady” shoes, even though she was only forty-two, and three little children snickered in the field behind her. They didn’t see the flood of tears fill her face as she walked away. Beatrice, Karen, and Ralph, dead -- all in one year. She wept. The last tear dropped, bathing her silken blouse in human salt.

Catherine took the elevator to her little one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan and made a quick call.

“Yes,” a deep voice answered.

“Cook, here: I’m going on extended leave. I need to think, and the honey is ready to harvest.”

Silence echoed on the other end of the line. Of course he was upset, but he knew she did her best thinking at the farm and she was his best contact, with the FBI anyway — she would hardly get in to any real trouble. She was the official secret liaison between the CIA and the FBI — long-time rivals. Although not the James Bond type — no Beretta or Martini’s for her — she was just a very stalwart link. Catherine and Paul knew they needed to work together during these uncertain times. The CIA and the FBI had their difference of opinion, but Paul was unusual — he cared.

“You have my arm twisted, Catherine — but call in once in a while?’ His voice became slightly strained. “And for God’s sake, Catherine, stay on-line. Bring your lap-top. People are dropping like flies.”

“I know. I know it too well.”

She sat behind the wheel of her black Jeep and headed North toward her farm. It was a mere five hour drive from the City, and if they really needed her they could pick her up by helicopter. The thought of checking the wax capped honey and looking for new brood gave her some sort of solace, but Beatrice never joining her again sent a tear down a newly formed wrinkle on her cheek. Her job had aged her and she was seriously considering an early retirement after this case was solved. “A natural death,” she murmured looking at the verdant farms and cornfields on either side of her. There was nothing natural about it. It happened in sporadic areas across America only — city areas. Interestingly enough, babies and young children must have had some sort of immunity to it. This was terrorism at its worst. She would examine the camera chip tomorrow morning, check out some poisons on her confidential links, and then visit her bees and ask their opinion.

As she pulled onto her dirt road, dust and summer warmth greeted her like old friends. She had opened the window by then and let her wavy red hair blow in the gentle wind. It reminded her of a younger mans hands running their fingers through it once, long ago. She shook off the thought. A well-built young man waved from the front porch and jumped down to greet her. She opened the door to a pair of muscular arms that held her tight.

“I’m so sorry, Mom; I figured if Beatrice ... you know, I would help around the place — you don’t mind, do you?”

Catherine looked up into the dancing jade eyes of her only son. He looked exactly like his father, God rest his soul. Pausing, she thought of that man, a lifetime ago, and it made her begin to cry. She cleared her throat, fighting back the tears, and said, “Well, do you still remember how?”

The sandy-haired nineteen-year-old grabbed her bags and said, “Yes, I still remember how.”

Catherine smiled. “You’ll do fine then,” and she grabbed her purse, a black satchel, and followed him into the house.

“One more thing, Michael — I need to visit my girls tomorrow morning...alone. I need some time to think — you know?”

Silence.

Michael said, “Mom, how are you?”

“I’m —”

“Losing Dad, Karen, and Beatrice in the one year — it’s tough for you, Mom.”

Her husband Ralph died before the outbreak of the Epidemic on ‘a post’ earlier this year. They spread his ashes near the beehives, the place he loved best. And Karen, the sensible daughter, how could her Clare encourage her to join this idiotic Green Revolution — it was Clare’s fault Karen is dead; she never even reached eighteen. Catherine felt her hands forming tightened fists — she released. A well of pain filled as far as her throat and for moments she was unable to speak. Then she said, “Michael, having both your parents in the FBI was tough on you.”

“I understood and there was always one of you around for me. And Karen — He stopped and choked down tears. “I didn’t turn out so bad, did I — even though I do look like the “milkman’s son”. He laughed, as his thick sandy hair and sturdy build was always said to come from the other side of the family. “I’m nineteen now. Mom, where do the years go?”

She read something else in what he was saying — the retirement issue. He had lost one parent on ‘a post,’ his younger sister in the Revolution, and did want to lose another loved one anytime soon.

Catherine realized that Michael’s true “home” was the Bees Knees Apiary; the one place he would always remember both of his parents walking the wooden-planked halls, and tending the beehives even though they had hired help. Ralph named it. He would always say things like, “the bees were his girls” and “tea with honey, dear? You're the bee's knees Catherine!”

“Your girls, Mom,” Michael laughed quietly and answered, “I’ll leave you alone tomorrow with your girls — don’t worry.”

***

Catherine woke early the next morning and popped the chip into her computer. She recognized several of the men and women entering the warehouse. They were terrorists from Russia, China, and two of their ruffian Middle Eastern provinces. Of late, times had become rough for the United States. Several multi-terrorist attempts had been made upon the country in the past few years. She was interested in the poison used — thinking of the venom ‘her girls’ used when they stung her once or twice out of fear or defense. However, if a swarm of Africanized Bees chased you down — you’d be dead for sure. She searched, for a few hours and finally this came up with: “Biotoxin Ricin: Another of the so called untraceable poisons Biotoxin Ricin made from the Castor Bean plant. This type of untraceable poisons is purportedly being made by Iraq and other terrorist nations.”

“Makes sense,” she mumbled.

The only thing she couldn’t make out was the name on the warehouse snapshot. Catherine removed her antique magnifying glass from its velvet sleeve. It was the only thing she was given after her mother died; her brother was an attorney and embezzled the rest. She received it in a package from some unknown island near Cuba.

Re-directing her thoughts, she noticed there was a raised swirl of dark chocolate paint in the shape of a letter “B” on a golden bag — she had seen it in the magazine at her doctor’s appointment last week. It was the symbol for the newest rage: A gourmet coffee bean corporation aptly called “Beans,” into which all the wealthy were investing. The name of the place escaped her, but she heard that they would only deliver by mail, late, and it was a worldwide international company. She would call Paul later — after she pieced this thing together. The Castor Bean poison certainly could have been used to lace the coffee, but why?

She scratched her wavy hair and almost tossed her idea. “It’s an international company, and we are the only ones affected,” she whispered. “Unless, of course. . . “She just couldn’t bear the thought. “I must see my girls and think on it a while.”

Catherine suited up. Her bee suit was well-designed, slightly snug this year due to stress, and over-eating. “Gotta lay off the honey babe, or this suit will be traded up a size real soon,” Catherine shouted at her image in the mirror. There she saw a woman who looked barely forty, smooth milky skin with a few new wrinkles, and wavy burgundy hair. She was medium in height and build — some might think of her as a beauty, but if she kept up her eating habits she felt that would soon change.

Her gloves provided valuable defense against stings from guard bees, wasps and hornets. Michael could easily fit into Ralph’s suit, but that would not be until tomorrow. She had some thinking to do. There are many mysteries connected with honey bees; mysteries that her honey bees might help her unravel. She left the mirror, and went back to her thoughts.

***

Descending the stairs quietly the next morning, she saw Michael setting up her favorite tea cup next to his and a fresh pound of Honey Hill in a gourmet glass jar. The kettle was boiling and how could she refuse. “Not too much honey, OK?”

Michael smiled.

“I thought you drank coffee?” she asked.

“I usually do,” Michael answered, “and it should arrive here within a few days. Beans are the best; they’re all the rage. The only problem is that you can only get them delivered — they have no shops or cafés.”

Catherine gasped. Beans? If she weren’t a tea drinker, she might have picked it up far more quickly. “Do me a favor, dear – when that package comes, will you give it to me?” “I will,” he answered, nervously running calloused fingers through his thick, fawn hair.

Michael walked into the den.

Catherine strolled down the stone pathway to the bee hives. The brook babbled in the balmy air. She always felt a tingle of joy when visiting her girls. The blossoms to produce one pound of honey alone, and the many other jobs that must be completed for a colony to flourish, were mind boggling. Her honey bees were constantly adapting to conditions around and within their hives. Catherine’s five hives provided enough honey for personal consumption, gifts, and mead. Coffee? Hardly. Could this epidemic be caused by Biotoxin-Ricin-tainted coffee beans from this new trendy beanery? It would explain the pictures on the chip of the terrorists entering the building — Both words start with “B” — but she needed more proof, such as why? “What do you think, girls,” she whispered into the wind. She walked into the bees. Only the gentle hum of her girls at work replied.

***

They would need another super tomorrow; she thought once examining her hives. After smoking the hives and cracking several of them open, she saw more than enough honey for sharing. If you were kind to your bees, they would remain in their hives. They would have to do a bit more work though – until October.

One honey-bee landed on her glove and crawled around as if it were in the hands of a loving God. When finished exploring, it flew off into the wilderness in search of pollen and nectar.

Mid-May was when Catherine’s acres of apple orchards fully blossomed. The new flow of nectar had been underway long enough for her girls to gather nectar, pollen, to make honey and feed their brood — the next generation. Michael had been smoking their suits and began to crack open the first bee hive. “Slowly and safely,” his mother reminded. Michael just smiled and went back to work.

Back to Beans. Could this be the source of our “natural deaths”? Were they tainting the beans with some sort of drug that killed without a trace – to create a new colony? She decided to text Paul and have someone come pick up Michael’s package, if it ever reached the house — unless she could manage to get one of the local Universities to examine it.

No one but Catherine, and of course her bee-club friends and other bee keepers around the world, seemed to understand the crucial part honey bees and other insects that transport nectar for their own use, and pollen “droppings” carried from one plant to foliage miles away. Pollination was what made things grow. Most of the other world super powers were having food shortages because their bees were dying. America had no such problem. We flourished, at least ecologically. Desperate world super powers were raping rain forests in search of fertile land; kidnapping American apiary scientists for solutions. She felt butterflies in her stomach eating its lining away – this was bad, really bad.

Catherine returned to her kitchen and took the net off her head. Michael was in watching the TV, and she ascended the staircase to her bedroom. Two thoughts within Catherine’s mind converged amongst many minor ones: Call Paul; another she must brush from her concentration. Paul must be at the top of her list, so she slithered out of her bee keeper’s suit and picked up her secure cell phone. Pressing his extension, she received a message: “Good Morning, This is Paul Matthews, I will be out until tomorrow. If you need…” Catherine listened until she heard the beep. “Beans – call me,” she said, and then hung up. Paul would call back as soon as he could.

She dressed casually and descended the staircase. Michael thought she was young-looking for her age. She did not. In the den, Catherine focused on the TV set. The newscaster stated that Mr. Paul Matthews, a top player in the CIA, had succumbed to the Epidemic and was pronounced dead this Morning. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered loudly. Catherine glanced at Michael, who gazed back at her, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. She knew he wanted a cigarette, but she never approved of his smoking. With winkled brow, she gave him his chance and rushed up the staircase. Catherine called Jane Caldwell, Paul’s secretary; it was unorthodox, but necessary. “Jane?” Catherine said shakily.

“Yes,” a deep woman’s voice answered.

“It’s Beans, the new coffee distributor – they are mailing out Biotoxin-Ricin-laced coffee …I can’t talk here – test the beans.” Catherine hung up.

Michael stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Catherine smelt the faint odor of cigarette smoke. He was a man, although just nineteen, and needed to make his own health decisions, she decided. Rambling up the staircase to her bedroom she dialed into the green room to Paul’s superior, Matt Smith’s office.

“Hello,” a deep southern voice answered.

“It’s Cook – I think I have solved our mystery. Is the line secure?”

He answered, “Yes.”

Catherine paused. “I know you may find this a bit odd, but a friend gave me a chip with four terrorists entering the warehouse of the new Beans coffee merchandise — the Russians, Chinese, and two more from the Middle East. I knew them all by sight. Have an autopsy check on Paul’s body for Biotoxin-Ricin-laced coffee. It’s a definitely a poison from Castor Beans — being made by Iraq and other terrorist nations. I believe they have tainted Beans coffee with it. I believe to destroy American’s, due to our fertile land, and start a new colony for themselves. My son ordered some Beans coffee and it should arrive any day. Have someone come and pick it up — I really think this might be the culprit. It is only available by mail order. Something just is not right — do you know what I mean?”

Smith cleared his throat and said, “I better push my coffee away. I’m on it. Call me when the package arrives.” Smith was working on an anecdote from his sample of coffee anyway. But they needed more evidence — since Beans was tipped off and quit the biz; Michael’s package was their only hope.

***

There was a chill in the air — the months had flown by and it was already October. Maybe the package had been lost by the postal service — out here in the fields it was not that uncommon.

“Don’t worry girls; we’ll only take what we need,” Catherine said, smiling through her net at her son. “When I’m dead and gone,” she said to Michael, “always remember that the honey we take is surplus honey that our girls won’t need to carry them through the winter and spring.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “You have many more years left in that body of yours – why don’t you consider retirement and enjoy your girls and maybe me too while you still can?”

It was an interesting and agreeable thought. All of her friends were dying, and one loved one missing or dead. Did she really want to die serving the FBI? She never had a real life with her son. She had certainly served her country more than the average agent – in fact, if one really thought about it, she was a double agent; a liaison between the CIA and FBI.

“Why not; you’re right!” she answered. “After this case I think I’ll hang up my hat so to speak.”

The bees hummed in agreement; so did Michael.

After careful inspection of the five hives, and as little disruption to the bees as possible, Catherine and Michael pulled out the frames with honey they needed and put them in harvest supers. Each frame was thick with honey. They were smaller frames, and Catherine could have coped with it, but Michael handled all the heavy lifting. He would wrap the hives for the winter next month.

They loaded up the ancient pick-up she left at the farm for just this reason and drove down the path toward the guest house where the honey extraction equipment was ready and waiting. Some day she would get one of those new-fangled Amish wagons, and give up that old Junker for good.

They watched from the truck as a delivery van left a trail of dust down their dirt road. The infamous “B” package had been dropped off on the porch. Catherine looked at Michael and asked, “Be a dear and start the extraction – I have an important call to make.” She knew Michael wanted to ask why, as he always had, but the possibility of having his mother resign once this case was solved was worth the wait.

“Sure,” he said and headed off to the honey house.

She exited the door and hurried toward the house. She picked up the package with her bee gloves on – - not sure if the poison was on the box as well and went to her bedroom.

Matt Smith’s personal line picked up after the first ring.

“I have the package,” Catherine said. “Good, he answered. We have an anecdote! Thank God I didn’t drink that coffee. I’ll send one of my bees for the evidence right away.” Catherine returned to the honey house with the box. “They are coming for it now, Michael. I’ll let you in on a bit of this one since it is my last case.”

Despite the chilly afternoon Michael, had tied his flannel around his waist, and sweat dripped down off his torso. He stopped whirling the extractor.

“The epidemic is clearly not a natural death. Beans coffee has been tainted with some sort of new tasteless poison, or at least that is our thoughts right now. We have an anecdote, but need your fresh evidence. I must go inside now – I trust that you can handle this by yourself. You see, I’d like to have my resignations ready for pick up as well.” She smiled at her son and hoped that he might stay at Bee’s Knees with her for a while.

Catherine signed two resignations, one for the FBI and one for the CIA, and sealed the letters with her private bee stamp in warm honey wax. This reminded her of her daughter Karen —killed — and her sister Clare who was at fault. Sealing letters with honey wax was a family tradition. She bit her lip; it tasted bittersweet.

***

Her wavy hair blew in the wind as the helicopter whomped its approach. She couldn’t hear a thing. He couldn’t hear her shouting at him, or see her arms waving wildly. The pilot was about to land on her prize peony patch! He lifted back into the air with a whoosh; she grabbed the box of coffee, with the gloves still on, and headed out the door. There was a small field to the right of the farm and in the opposite direction of her bees. The actual landing zone need not be sizeable, and no one else from the agency ever had any trouble; yet she was nervous as this was the very first resignation she had ever tendered. She reached the whirling machine and asked the pilot if he had gloves. He shook his head and looked around, finding a pair underneath his seat. Putting them on, he seized the box.

“One more thing,” Catherine added. “The contents of these two letters are for Matthew Smith’s eyes only, and it is of the utmost importance that he receives them both immediately.”

The pilot lifted his glasses, took the letters, and said, “Yes, Ma’am - he’ll receive both straight away.” The helicopter took off quickly, like one of her girls searching after the most succulent flower she could find in a distant field.

Catherine Cook let the cool wind blow through her locks and raised her face to the sun. “Today is gold, pure gold…” she whispered, walking back toward the honey house, beaming with joy. Michael had probably finished bottling already, but she wanted to be with him every moment she had left on God’s green earth.

Her brow creased. “That damn Political Sweepstakes is tomorrow — I should position with the Blues and stand against Clare —oh, how I hate her!” The Blues had contacted Catherine already — with an interesting offer. No reply was given, yet. She kicked a pile of leaves. Catherine would not let it bother her, not today. The case was on its way to being solved, and she at long last “quit the biz”. She had every reason to be contented, to shed a few happy tears, and look forward to living life, at its fullest.